Armament
by ravishinginred
Summary: Molly finds Sherlock being typically careless with John's gun. Unimpressed, she confronts the detective only to find that he has been more affected by his confrontation with Magnussen than he realized.
1. Shielded

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, his eyes alight.

"As if you don't already know." Molly teased, opening his fridge. A spot had already been cleared for the fresh cadaver limbs that she was dropping off. Sherlock flashed her a boyish grin in response to her exasperated fondness. God knows what he wanted cadaver feet for.

Better not to ask.

"You're off today." Sherlock announced despite being deeply immersed in an experiment on the kitchen table with a Bunsen burner and what appeared to be a pig's foot. The cadaver feet would likely meet the same end.

"Overly generous I know, but you create such havoc when you filch body parts when other pathologists are on duty." In point of fact, the pathologist had winced the night before, after learning that the cadaver limbs Sherlock had wanted would be available. Knowing he would get wind of it, she'd made a pre-emptive strike, rather than have him at the lab and decide to pilfer anything else.

It was also a chance to check-up on him. She hadn't seen much of him since he returned to London after the confrontation with Magnussen two months prior. She was pleased to find him in high spirits this morning, playing mad scientist in trousers, a pale grey shirt, and his blue dressing gown.

And barefoot.

Molly silently shifted an Erlenmeyer flask that was precariously perched near the edge of the table. Enough sense to wear goggles and gloves, but not shoes. Really?

Sherlock quirked his lips as he pulled the sample out of the flame. His eyes flickered to hers briefly, evidently flattered by her gesture. She could tell he was positively itching to finish this trial so he could examine the specimens she had brought him. Amazing that a 37-year-old man could be giddy, like a little kid. She returned his smile, reviewing the experiment on the table, preparing to ask him about it when her eyes locked on to something just beyond.

His head shot up, hearing her surprised gasp, and followed her gaze to a pistol sitting unattended on the arm of his chair in the living room. The muzzle pointed carelessly _at the door_ no less.

She shouldn't be surprised really. Just Sherlock being Sherlock. But it was exceptionally rare for a Briton to come into contact with a pistol. With the exception of antiques, the sale and private possession of all handguns was strictly prohibited.

It was maybe the fourth time she'd ever seen one.

"The door is always wide open! What if a client comes? Or Lestrade?" Molly exclaimed, aghast.

Sherlock just shrugged, returning to his experiment. "Perhaps I have a gun license?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "There isn't anyone in London with_ less_ respect for society's duty to bureaucracy. I doubt you've ever put in the minimal effort required to get a driver's license."

The requirements for a 5-year gun certificate were notoriously stringent. It was almost unheard of for someone to be legally in possession of a handgun. Even on-duty police officers couldn't carry pistols in England. In the rare situations it was necessary, they would be required to wait and call SCO-19, a unit authorised to use firearms.

"Seriously, Sherlock! You can't just leave a loaded gun in the open, accessible to anyone while your...indisposed."

"I could retrieve it before anyone made it to the second step." Sherlock drawled, bored. "How would you know its loaded?"

"What use would you have for a gun that's unloaded?" Molly retorted, walking over to his chair.

"Paperweight." He suggested flippantly.

Irritated by his recklessness and insanely curious, Molly watched his entire demeanour change as she picked up the pistol, carefully turning it so the muzzle was pointed to the fireplace – _away_ from the door.

"Second step?" Molly chided, her eyebrows raised.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't tried to hide his pleasure in Molly's spontaneous visit. He'd been terribly bored the past couple months with only a handful of cases worthy of leaving the flat. "Moriarty's return" had turned out a spectacular disappointment. He'd known right away the message was the work of a copy cat. Unfortunately an unimaginative, dismal one that took mere hours to hunt down. But now he possessed four cadaveric feet in which to evaluate the performance of three orthotics in 16 combinations.

More than that, there was a discovery to be made.

He couldn't wait to find whatever playful token or surprise accompanied the limbs. Molly certainly couldn't tell a joke, but she catered to Sherlock's requisite for attention with silliness. The last time he'd broke into the morgue stores to procure cadaver parts, he'd found the satisfactory ones already designated for him, labelled "Mr. Stiff", "Mr. Grave", "Mr. Rigor", and "Mr. Mortis."

Molly was persistent in finding ingenuous ways or excuses to offer affection and attention though he pretended to be indifferent and rarely reciprocated. She could be so undemanding.

He'd missed her companionship of late.

As Molly placed the package in fridge, Sherlock didn't stop himself from a furtive perusal of her form. The pathologist's shapeless, loose clothes did nothing to hide the gentle sway of her hips, the tininess of her waist, or her soft curves. Not to someone who observes. Molly's subtle, non-provocative sensuality was usually lost on all men, but not him.

Then she straightened, turning to face him, reminding him that he _wasn't_ the only male appreciative of her attributes, intellectual or otherwise. Her hair was loose, in curls, smelling of hairspray. She'd styled her hair the night before and simply brushed it out this morning. Though she'd had a bath and scrubbed her face, there was still remnants of eyeliner on her bottom lids. And then there was the fresh manicure. All grooming habits signifying a date.

She'd had a date last night.

Not a date that had gone anywhere as evidenced by her early arrival and refreshed skin tone. She'd slept alone last night.

Sherlock resisted the urge to grin, instantly rebuking himself for concerning himself. Such waste to fixate on extraneous, inconsequential data when he had long ago decided to eschew the distractions and tedious obligations of a romantic relationship.

He'd been steadfast in dismissing her earlier romantic advances to commit himself wholly to the Work. But after the Fall, he'd been unable to deny an attraction to her, despite his unwillingness to act on it. She'd changed a great deal during his time away. Everyone had.

They'd settled into an easy, platonic friendship. Complete with banter and gentle scolding.

Sherlock sighed dismissively. Why was she prattling on about John's gun? Surely, she'd be more concerned about the anthrax experiment taking place in the fridge. Or the 250 ml of unadulterated Potassium set carelessly by the sink?

Sherlock noted Molly's movement towards his chair, more intent on his observations than her admonishments. She wasn't wearing make-up today, as was his preference. With a flawless complexion and fine, delicate features, make-up was only a distraction. But the implication that she'd given up trying enhance her appearance in order to attract his attention was...irritating.

All at once, Sherlock perked up, thunderstruck by Molly's bold move and brazen comment about the firearm. She always found the most unexpected methods of gaining his notice and undivided attention. Make-up be damned.

Instantly aroused from his docile state, his eyes narrowed as he pulled off his goggles and shrugged his gloves. Sherlock silently glided to the door, pushing it shut. Three more strides and the detective stood at the fireplace, arms crossed against his chest, not moving to take the gun from her.

"Well? Go on." Sherlock said.

"No! I don't want to play with it! I want you to put it away!"

"After you show me."

"Show you what?"

"What you know of firearms."

"I don't – I don't know anything about them really." Molly said, suddenly shy.

"You wouldn't have touched the pistol if you were completely unfamiliar with them. Your grip is correct, firm but not too tight. Thumb and index finger extended correctly on the frame. You pointed it downrange at the fireplace, the only object that would act as a suitable backstop."

Molly shook her head, faltering. "I don't know. I haven't seen one in over a decade."

"Indulge me." Sherlock demanded.

With a resigned sigh, Molly turned her body, keeping the gun pointed away, examining it and obviously trying to remember what little she knew. It occurred to Sherlock that she'd been trying to make some sort of point, not show off.

Sherlock positioned himself beside Molly, ready to assist if she made a misstep. The gun was too big for her thumb to reach the magazine release without changing her grip, so she wisely used her left hand to push the button, dropping the magazine into her palm before pocketing it her jumper.

She pressed the heel of her left hand against the slide, wrapping her fingers around it, careful to not cover the ejection port. Sherlock's amusement swelled as Molly held the slide steady with her non-dominant hand and punched the frame forward with her right, holding the pistol close to her torso. The round clattered to the floor.

Molly racked the gun twice more before pushing the slide lock up, holding the slide in place. After confirming the chamber was empty, she passed the gun to Sherlock, evidently pleased that she hadn't looked foolish. Her saucy smile sent an unexpected jolt straight to his groin.

A delighted grin spread across his face as he glanced down the chamber, instinctively checking to see that it was empty, twirling the weapon in his hand. Now that Sherlock thought about it, it was hardly surprising that Molly would show interest in a firearm. She was like him, a scientist, utterly hungry for knowledge and analytical, unfazed by what most would consider macabre or aberrant.

When she knelt on the floor to pick up the round that had fallen, looking up at him with wide, not-so innocent eyes, it took everything in him to follow her down, cover her, and disabuse any notions of his lack of sexual desire.

Her ministrations had been artless and unpolished, but competent. The deadly tool in her hand had presented a sharp contrast to her gentle nature. To her innate inclination to heal and sooth.

Sherlock loved contradictions.

* * *

Molly was surprised by his intense gaze. Of course, he would be intrigued seeing her – a quiet, unassuming woman – holding a dangerous weapon. Most men got hot seeing girls hold guns. Not that anything she did could make Sherlock hot.

"Not a common skill set for an Englishwoman. Where did you learn that?" He seemed impressed.

"You tell me."

"You're awkward because your experience is limited. No more than a handful of encounters I'd say. But you've had good instruction by a professional, likely a woman."

"How do you know that?" Molly asked incredulously.

"Most novice women struggle with the heavy slide of a semi-automatic. You were shown the correct technique for racking the slide. Most men can't show you that. Unless they specifically train women, they don't understand or forget that a woman usually lacks the strength to pull it back like a slingshot."

Molly's breath hitched, watching Sherlock demonstrate by releasing the slide and pulling it back with his thumb and forefinger. He handled the weapon with certainty and grace. It was extremely sexy.

"You're right. I can't do it like that."

"Most women can't. They are shown incorrectly and often lose interest because of their perceived inability to manipulate the weapon."

Molly nodded. That was exactly what had happened the first time her male friend had tried to show her. She'd fumbled it uselessly, until a girlfriend had taken over.

"You did a semester abroad in America. I assume they took you shooting during your visit."

"I went twice when I was in my early twenties." Molly confirmed, bashful. "I was very against it at first, but curiosity won out. I'm terrible at it. If anything, I wanted to know how to check if a gun is loaded and clear it."

"Useful for someone living in a country with one of the lowest gun homicide rates in the world." He sounded sceptical.

Molly shrugged. "They turn up in A & E from time to time. Everyone freaks out, waiting for it to miraculously go off while waiting for the firearms unit to come secure it."

"No intent to become an international assassin then. Disappointing."

_Would you chase me down, Sherlock?_ She flushed, chastising herself for her naughty thoughts. He was standing _so _close to her.

Molly redirected the conversation – and her thoughts – to something more appropriate, asking "So, where did you get it?"

"Its John's. He left it here while they are on holiday with the baby."

"What kind is it? They all look the same to me."

"SIG Sauer P226. Former sidearm of the British Army."

A frown crossed her brow. "Surely they wouldn't have let him keep it. Wouldn't he have to surrender it when he was discharged?"

Sherlock's eye's glittered mischievously, turning the weapon to display where the serial number had been sawed off. "Guns get lost and re-issued all the time."

This _had_ to be the gun Sherlock used last Christmas. To protect John and Mary. How had it not been confiscated after a homicide? It wasn't something she would dare ask.

"Is it different for you now?" Molly asked tentatively, her voice almost a whisper.

"Hmm?"

"Handling them. Being around them. After being shot, almost dying." _After nearly getting sent away for killing a man_.

"Its a tool, Molly. Nothing more. I've sustained injuries from a variety of instruments." Sherlock boasted proudly. "Riders get back on their horses after falling. People get back into cars after terrible accidents."

"Not always."

"You apply a great deal of sentiment to an inanimate object." Sherlock said dubiously.

"Guns evoke strong emotions in most people. You'd never describe your violin as 'just a tool.'"

Sherlock scowled, almost repulsed as Molly explained. "You are a composer, while I'm not remotely musically inclined. I can't differentiate between musicians playing the same piece. I miss the nuances. I don't hear the story that you do."

"What sort of story to you hear when you touch one?" Sherlock inquired, still not understanding.

"Well, I don't know. They are frightening and intimidating. I experimented with one well before becoming a pathologist and seeing first-hand the damage inflicted by them. Before knowing people personally affected by gun violence." _Like you._

"Going beyond the obvious, you felt something else other than fright and anxiety when you held it moments ago. You were excited by it."

The detective shifted behind Molly, holding her steady with his left hand on her arm while winding his dominant hand around her, pressing the empty gun back in her right hand. Molly blushed, feeling Sherlock's chest at her back, his hands trapping her arms, and his chin pressed against the side of her head. It was normal for him to be flirtatious, but not with touching.

"Sherlock, this is a bit weird..." Molly started.

He ignored her, repeating, "You were excited by it."

Molly flashed a shy, embarrassed smile. "Maybe. Well, a bit. There's a fair amount of mystery. We get inundated with imagery of glamourous heroes and action stars wielding them in daring adventures and that."

"You're looking for adventure?" His deep baritone sent shivers down Molly's spine.

"Not quite." Molly laughed, feeling a bit absurd. "Perhaps something as wild as walking alone or taking the tube at night. Or going to an unfamiliar pub and not worrying about feeling harassed or intimidated."

"Your gender plays a part in your perception."

"Of course." Molly agreed, trying to keep her voice steady as Sherlock pressed closer. Protectively almost. "You're a man. A tall, terrifying one at that. You attract attention of career criminals, not average blokes waiting for an opportunity. No one ever looks at me and thinks 'that's not one to mess with.'"

"Ah, an equaliser."

Molly snorted. "Possibly. But I could never use one, no matter how proficient I was."

Sherlock didn't say anything, dropping his hands to her hips. She continued speaking, not wanting him to stop touching her. "Its more about the fantasy, about embracing feelings that a woman like me doesn't have much chance to act on."

"Its amusing to contradict the roles and rules we are expected to adhere to." Sherlock said knowingly. "No one attributes a woman with a gun as being emotional, weak, or nurturing. Or affectionate and forgiving."

God, if he was anyone else, she would think he was coming on to her.

"Exactly." Molly agreed, speaking slowly, thoughtfully. "Not that I have a problem fitting into those roles, but women are limited in ways that men aren't. We aren't expected possess, let alone ever act on aggressive urges."

"Hmmm?"

"Um, I don't know. To be dangerous or destructive. To conquer."

"Conquer what, Molly?" Sherlock husked.

_Your fit body, for starters! _Good God,her imagination was spiralling out of control. Molly bit her lip, unable to think of anything remotely appropriate to say.

"Fascinating. You perceive the firearms as an expression of masculinity, and therefore taboo. Is it only the implied violence?"

"Well, they are sort of phallic." Molly blurted, immediately flushing scarlet. She couldn't believe she'd just said that to him! God, why couldn't she ever shut up! She felt, rather than heard his surprised gasp.

"How so?" His voice had dropped to an impossibly deep register, excited and genuinely curious, Molly realised.

"Oh, come on!"

"You find guns sexual."

"Never mind, Sherlock!" Molly stammered, beyond mortified.

Sherlock never let anything go. "Explain to me how you associate a gun with the male organ."

"Google it. I'm not having this conversation with you."

"Why not? We discuss everything else."

"Oh my god, its so obvious. Really?"

She turned her head to look at him, immediately regretting it. Sherlock looked irritated. She'd used the dreaded "O" word, obvious. Now, he would never drop it, unable the bear the thought that someone knew something critical that he didn't know.

Molly took a deep breath, turning back to examine the inert weapon in her hand, feeling its weight. "To someone that only sees them on the telly, they are elusive and enigmatic."

Sherlock tightened his arms around her, hooking his chin over Molly's shoulder, watching her finger trace the design engraved in the grip. "They are beautiful, really. Elegant. Dangerous."

Molly shut her eyes, feeling the cool, metal frame with curled fingers, listening to Sherlock's breath become shallow. There was no doubt that he was getting off on this. She hoped her voice didn't sound shaky.

"Guns are hard, Sherlock. Heavy." Her knees nearly buckled when she felt him press a smooth, open-mouthed kiss against her neck. One kiss turned into a string of them, until he abruptly stopped. A manipulation to get her to continue her explanation.

"They're cold, but get hot when you use them." Molly squeaked, fighting to stay verbal, to not drop the weapon. Sherlock's hand was splayed against her belly, holding her as his other hand tangled in her hair, exposing her neck.

"Oh! Loud. Guns are loud." Molly couldn't stifle her gasp when Sherlock traced the shell of her ear with his tongue.

Molly lost herself in the fantasy, reaching back to grip his thigh, resisting the urge to wiggle her backside into his front. She could feel his erection against her bum, his fingers under her jumper, tracing the waistline of her trousers. Yeah, Sherlock got it now.

Molly tried to twist in his arms, eager to kiss him, but he held her steady, driving her to distraction with playful nips on her neck. "They explode."

How much more dirty talk did Sherlock need to get on with things?

"Holding one feels empowering, make you feel in control." Molly moaned.

Sherlock jerked away abruptly with a hiss, rounding on her. He tried to school his expression into an impassive mask, but failed. Unable to hide his revulsion. Molly felt as if she'd been gutted, listening to his next words.

* * *

Though they were just words – meaningless, ignorant words from an unassuming young woman – Sherlock felt a physical shock, more wrenching and brutal than he'd ever felt in his life. What the hell had he been thinking, bullying her into this fucked-up role-play despite her initial reserve? What the hell was it that he'd been trying to accomplish? How could she be so spectacularly ignorant?

Sherlock was furious with himself, but that didn't stop him from taking it out on her.

"An illusion." Sherlock snapped. "Private citizens use guns because of fear, Molly. _Never_ because they are in control." He'd never felt so out of control in his life when he'd shot Magnussen dead. He'd been backed into a corner. Inept. _Useless_.

"No, I know that, I – " Molly stammered, baffled.

It wasn't fair. Not fair, Sherlock knew. Her impression of firearms was romantic Westerns and James-_Fucking_-Bond. Heroines from video games. _Empowering? _ But how would she know otherwise? Excessive, needless gun violence happened in _other_ countries. An education was in order.

"Eighty-three, Molly. Eighty-three." Sherlock bit out.

The petite woman shook her head, not comprehending.

"In the United States, for every one woman that defends herself with a handgun, eighty-three are murdered by one. The numbers get far worse in other countries where guns are prolific."

She held her hand up defensively, trying to stop his tirade but Sherlock continued, his blood up.

"Far from an equaliser, guns statistically pose a disproportionate hazard for women, possibly transforming an argument into a domestic homicide in an instant."

"I know that, Sherlock!" Molly whispered. "I see the victims of domestic abuse _every_ day."

"You spoke of security and safety, but the balance of probability consistently suggests a gun-owner is more inclined to be harmed by their own weapon. " Sherlock was shouting now, rattling off statistics. "A gun in the home makes homicide three times more likely, suicide up to five times as likely, and accidental death four times higher than in non-gun owning homes."

"The gun was empty! You'd never let anything happen."

Sherlock took two steps back to the cupboard behind John's chair. The drawer would lock. Good. He pulled it open, not yelling anymore but deceptively cold. "Accidents are never intentional, Molly. You were alarmed when I pushed you to hold it, but not when I did."

"Well, I know you. I trust you."

Sherlock's expression was pained. "All the more reason for you to be uncomfortable. Women are rarely murdered by strangers. Less than six percent. Women are killed by intimate male acquaintances. Men that are impatient, possessive. _Volatile_."

The detective watched Molly's jaw drop stupidly, absorbing the full weight of everything he was implying. Sherlock jerked his head, motioning for her to place the firearm in the drawer. He couldn't bare to touch it, not in her presence. How could he have missed it? Endangered her? Been so damn flippant about it?

Sherlock stepped back, allowing Molly to deposit the weapon and magazine in the cupboard and quietly close the drawer. He couldn't help but flinch when she moved forward, touching his arm.

"_That_ is not what you are!" Molly said firmly, waving her opposite hand at the cupboard. "You would never hurt me, Sherlock."

She spoke so calmly, with such conviction. It rankled him.

Sherlock stepping closer, crowding Molly, deliberately towering over her. "I've harmed many people, Molly." Sherlock snarled.

"Out of self-defence." The pathologist stood her ground, steadfast and collected despite his theatrics.

"The man I _murdered_ not two months ago was unarmed." Sherlock's hollow chuckle rang through the flat. "You asked me earlier and now I'll ask you the same. Is it different for you, knowing that?"

Sherlock could tell he shocked her by speaking so plainly, but she didn't miss a beat. "No."

"You always were a foolish, sentimental girl." Sherlock mocked.

"Not really. I'm know what your capable of. I never assumed that he was the first." Molly's voice was defiant, her feet firmly planted to the floor, unmoved by his attempts to scare her off.

_That_ caught him off guard. She was so trustful and unworldly, he'd never presumed anything but nativity in his goings-on whilst he was away. God, she could be so goddamn stubborn! Surely, if she knew the whole story. What he really was.

"Twenty-two." Sherlock confirmed, with over-the-top enthusiasm.

"Twenty-two." Molly enunciated, unwavering. "You did what you had to do. To save John. And Lestrade. And Mrs. Hudson. So you could come home. To us."

"I did it to win!" Sherlock half-heartedly tried to pull away from her, but she held him fast, unwilling to let him evade her.

"No. To protect people. Keep them safe."

"How have I _ever_ protected anyone?" Sherlock exploded. "Was John safe when he was kidnapped and put under a pyre? Or strapped with a bomb? Was Mary safe when Magnessen threatened to expose her to strike at me? Or Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade when they were dragged into Moriarty's game?"

"That wasn't your fault."

"Did I keep you safe when Moriarty found you, used you to get my attention?" He'd never acknowledged his part in that. Always pushed it away. How had Moriarty known? _Known before he himself knew what Molly was to him?_

"But I wasn't hurt, Sherlock." Molly said quietly.

Sherlock's huff was a harsh, discordant. He pulled his arm out of her grasp, turning back to the kitchen. Molly followed him.

The detective didn't look at her. Couldn't. He went to the sink, turning on the taps, hoping the running water would silence the thoughts that echoed through his mind. Her thoughts. Drown out his shame. No such luck.

"Go wash your hands." Sherlock ordered.

"What?"

"The lead. Go wash your hands."

Molly opened her mouth to protest, but changed her mind after examining her hands. Sherlock groaned softly through clenched teeth hearing the loo door close shut.

* * *

This one-shot somehow ended up being 9,000+ words. Its complete and part two will go up some time next week. This is my first completed fanfiction. Please make my day and leave a comment or review!


	2. Threadbare

Molly pulled the loo door shut, her mind racing, trying to understand what had just happened. Her first inclination had been to stay, but she had known by his rigid posture and his dismissive tone that Sherlock had emotionally shut down. There wouldn't be any sense in trying to talk with him in such a state. Better to make a strategic retreat and give him a few moments to collect himself.

Water gushed from the tap. It was too hot, but Molly didn't withdraw her hands, embarrassed by the sexually charged conversation that precipitated his outburst. She should have known at that point that he was unwell.

Now that she thought about it, there where other – more troubling – indicators.

His reaction hadn't been about the gun itself or anything she'd said. The Magnussen case, disastrous from start to finish, had affected Sherlock far more than anyone had realized.

That was undoubtedly the first time Sherlock acknowledged the emotional impact of the shooting.

Until that _discussion_, Molly hadn't been sure how she felt about it either. She'd been content to pretend that everything was fine and all that mattered was that Sherlock and John had come out unscathed.

Sherlock was far from unscathed.

Truthfully, Sherlock's actions didn't sit well with her. What had happened wasn't okay. But everything she'd said to him moments ago was true. While Sherlock had a mean streak and had been particularly cruel to her at times, he could never pose a physical threat to her. He couldn't possibly believe that, could he? It hadn't escaped her notice that he'd been unable to touch the weapon after becoming emotional and angry.

Such a private man; it was alarming that he'd been so upfront about his past in an effort to drive her away.

He'd _never_ spoken about what had happened in the two years that he'd been away. Not even to John. They'd assumed the worst, known he'd been terribly lonely. Sherlock had come back changed. Gentler. Kinder. More invested in the lives and happiness of others – in his own way. He had been more genuine and appreciative if not a bit humbled that the world had gone on without him.

And he'd never mentioned her contact with Moriarty before either. She hadn't known it had ever bothered him.

Molly paused while rinsing the soap from her hands. Was this some sort of stunt? A test?

Clearly he expected rejection. Had desperately tried to goad her into one.

Perhaps he wanted to regress into his old, selfish ways. Regain the advantage by shunning friendship and companionship.

Thank god she'd had the mettle to stay calm and not escalate the situation. She'd been too baffled to do otherwise, really.

Other than staying, she was at a loss what to do for him. He seemed to think better with an audience, a sounding board. Maybe fix some tea to try to coax him into a constructive conversation?

Not that one ever successfully coaxed Sherlock into _anything_.

Molly dried her hands, mentally bracing herself, not knowing what she would find on the other side of the door.

* * *

The countertop under Sherlock's palms, what should have been an anchor, did nothing to halt the spin of the room around him, his inexplicable burst of rage now simmering at a bubbling panic. Sherlock desperately wanted to flee, but was helplessly frozen.

Sherlock forced his eyes open and relinquished his grip on the counter when he heard Molly shuffle into the kitchen. Despite his inner turmoil, he managed some self-discipline, schooling his features into his blank, impassive mask. The detective steeled himself for the fall-out; Molly would confront him, yell at him for being an arse. Perhaps she'd absorbed what he'd said and would shame him with disgust and disappointment as she had last year when he relapsed. Or worse, she would just leave.

He'd gotten lost somewhere along the way.

Gazed too long into the abyss, only to find it gazing back through him.

Not taken enough care to thwart a transition into a monster himself.

Surely, she would see it. She saw everything.

Instead, Molly casually shuffled around him, going through his cupboards. Nothing. No shouting. No slapping. No futile attempts at counselling.

A quick glimpse assured Sherlock that she wasn't angry or frightened. And he hadn't made her cry. Sherlock's shoulders dropped, relieved yet disappointed that she'd decided to ignore that _display_ and they'd go on as if nothing had happened.

He'd been foolish to think she'd just up and leave. She was the most loyal person he knew. Often to her detriment.

Sherlock's heart rate steadied, watching Molly fill the kettle and put it on boil. Allowing her to fuss over him usually made her happy. He could do that. Sherlock prepared to make a witty remark about a rocket experiment he'd once done with tea bags, but paused when her eyes met his, dashing all his hopes.

Oh.

Molly was patiently waiting_ for him_ to say something. Sherlock felt his stomach sink and his cheeks flush in embarrassment.

She never let him get away with anything anymore.

Molly had been kind, bringing him those cadavers, saving him the trip. And he had been unspeakably vile. She was as confused by his behaviour as he. She deserved an explanation.

Hell if he had one.

Perhaps an apology would suffice?

"Molly," Sherlock started, at a loss what to say. "That was – err – perhaps..." He trailed off.

_I'm sorry for nearly giving into the mad impulse to shag you despite the fact that I would doom any romantic relationship to failure? _ Um, no.

_Instead of shielding you from worst of my character flaws, I unloaded on you. Sorry?_ Preposterous.

_Please forgive my absurd strop..._ Oh, for God's sake!

Molly misunderstood his silence. "Do you want me to go?"

"No!" He said quickly. Too quickly.

Then Sherlock realised she had no intent to leave, no matter his response.

The pathologist gave him a small smile, reaching to squeeze his wrist. Her face fell when he shook off her gesture, unable to bear her touch. A sharp sting tore through his chest for having wounded her. Again.

_Machine. Freak. Murderer._

She recovered quickly, ordering him, "Go sit down. I'll bring the tea."

Sherlock stalked into the living room, flopping into his chair, pulling his dressing gown tighter. As if it could protect him from the frigid tension that threatened to shatter, leaving him confused and alone.

Molly set his cup beside him and sank into John's chair. They sipped their tea wordlessly. It tasted like ash.

Normally, Sherlock wouldn't be bothered to notice, let alone acknowledge an awkward reticence. It seemed prudent to keep his mouth shut rather than risk worsening an already delicate situation – as John would say. For the first time in his life, he truly envied those whom always knew the appropriate thing to say, could say just the thing to soothe a mortifying faux pas.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd felt mortified. Or unsettled. Or angry even. Just a constant throb of dread and unexplained disorientation. His victory over Magnussen had been hollow. As had all of his successfully completed cases since.

Odd, that.

His tea downed, Sherlock reached for his violin, anxious for something to do. He paused when she gave him _that_ look. With a groan, Sherlock bounced back in his chair, all sprawled limbs, in a sheepish pout.

Finally, Molly said something, dismissing the howling silence between them.

"I haven't seen you in weeks. You've been waiting to come to the lab when I wasn't there." Her voice was soft, not accusatory. "And John didn't just drop the gun. You haven't seen him in a month at least. He told me you haven't been to see the baby yet."

Sherlock's blinked, stupefied. That hadn't been at all what he'd expected. It took him far too long to respond. "I've been busy. Babies are tedious."

Molly crossed her arms and tilted her head, not buying that for a second.

"Not drugs." He blurted out defensively.

"Yeah. I know." Molly said slowly, her tone indicating it was the dumbest thing she'd ever heard.

The detective tilted his head, arching his eyebrow.

A knowing smile crossed her features. "It's the one thing you're never remotely sneaky about. You're not even smoking."

Sherlock didn't have time to be flattered by her astute observation.

"So why avoid us? After nearly sacrificing your freedom to save John?" Molly asked again, undeterred by his paltry attempt to distract her.

"I didn't _save_ anyone." Sherlock snarled, caught off guard. "How does killing an unarmed man qualify as a noble sacrifice?

"So what then?"

"Damage control." Sherlock clarified, his tone clipped.

"Ah. So you were just cleaning up your mess?" Molly considered that before shaking her head. "Another selfish evasion. If you blame yourself, you feel that no one else has the right to."

"I suppose now you are going to tell me that bad things happen. Things we can't predict. Things we can't prevent." His words dripped with his usual sarcasm.

"No, that's understanding that only comes from having humility. You're too arrogant to understand that not everything is all about you." Molly shrugged, keeping her tone placid. "But it's more than guilt. I think that you've accepted some sort of neurotic belief that something is wrong with you."

"I'm a sociopathic killer." Sherlock snapped. "Of course, there's something wrong with me."

"Don't say that!" Molly countered, frustration creeping into her tone. "Just because you aspire to be a sociopath, doesn't make it true."

"And the other?"

"Semantics. The only difference between what you did and that of a solider is that you acted without permission from the government."

"A rather large distinction." Sherlock huffed, irritated to hear words he'd once said thrown back at him. The detective drew himself out of his chair to stand at the window.

"Not for you. You've never sought permission or validation from official entities."

"And yet I get away with it." Sherlock sighed.

Molly must have heard the wistful note in his tone. Sherlock winced, hearing her sit forward in the seat, her sharp intake of air.

"You didn't expect to come back." Molly said numbly. "The suicide mission – you didn't want to." It wasn't a question. She held her breath, hoping he'd deny it.

Instead, a bleak confirmation: "God knows everyone would have been better off for it."

"What?!" Molly shot out of her chair. She rushed him before he had a chance to react, grasping his dressing gown, forcing him to look her in the eye, daring him to lie to her.

Sherlock was bewildered by her reaction. Molly was supposed to disagree with him yet again. Continue sparring with him, trying to reassure him that he wasn't a failure. That he hadn't disappointed everyone. That they didn't see him the way he saw himself. God, he wanted to believe it.

Or perhaps he expected her to dismiss his theatrics with a huff, stomp into the kitchen and fix him some more tea. He'd pick up his violin and play her a tune. Something cheerful. Then he'd take his tea and they'd discuss the orthotics experiment.

Molly wasn't supposed to believe him.

"What did you say?" Molly repeated, more urgent.

Alarmed brown eyes weren't supposed to search his for a lie, a sign of manipulation and be _crushed_ when she couldn't find it.

_Oh. _

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, realising his mistake.

"Nothing. I –." Sherlock started, trying to walk it back. Trying to fix it.

"You can't possibly mean that! How can you say that?" She jerked his shoulders roughly, forcing him to look at her, to follow her perceptive glance at the cupboard and back to his face, shocked and dismayed by his unvarnished shame.

He _had _been carelessly playing with the gun the night before, envisioning a safer world for his friends without him, contemplating the serenity that nothingness would bring.

"I – I don't know." Sherlock faltered, his eyes wide.

"You don't–." Molly choked, trying to hold back her tears. "Oh, god. Oh, no."

"No, Molly. No!" Sherlock tried, frantic. "Not that. I wasn't thinking–. I would never have done. _ I don't mean it._"

It was the truth, he realised. As self-destructive or depressed as he was, he'd never overcome the innate, _human_ instinct to survive. To endure.

It had been a bizarre exercise, an inappropriate expression of frustration and despair. But not truly a possibility. He knew that now.

But Molly...

Despite her death-grip on his dressing gown, Molly swayed as if she might fall. The detective caught her elbows, though it wasn't clear to whose benefit. His face had taken on a ghastly pallor, utterly remorseful and stricken by her visceral reaction. Sherlock felt that he might crumble himself.

"Well, too bad! You can't!" Molly shook him again, fierce and devastated. "Promise me! _Swear it now!_ Swear that you wouldn't do that to us."

"I do! I swear! I'd never do that." Sherlock stammered, completely abashed. "_I'm sorry._ Sorry."

Molly released him, finally breaking eye contact, trying to compose herself. Hating to appear weak in front of him, she started to stumble away.

"I'll call John." Molly offered. "He – he can help you figure this out."

Sherlock's hand shot out to seize her wrist. "No need. You already have. Just now." Sherlock guided her to sit on the sofa with him.

"I'm sorry, Molly. Sorry for all of it. Forgive me." Sherlock pleaded. Molly searched his face, finding what she was looking for and taking a deep, relieved breath.

"I'd forgive you anything. Anything but that." Molly sniffled, wiping her eyes.

Molly stiffened when Sherlock's fingers stroked her forearm, attempting to reassure her. Still stung by his earlier rebuffs, she gave him a weak smile. "You don't have to. I know you hate it."

He could see her making up her mind to call John, despite his protest.

She didn't believe that he would let her help him. That he craved her touch, her comfort.

Determined to debunk her misconception, Sherlock wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his chest as he sagged against the sofa. He sighed deeply when she leaned into him. Molly went to instinctively to drape her arm around his waist but hesitated, instead dropping her hand in her lap. Sherlock had none of it, gingerly winding her arm around him and completing the hug by embracing her middle.

Their first hug.

Sherlock marveled at her warmth and softness, allowing her unconditional acceptance fill him with peacefulness he couldn't find on his own.

"I'm sorry too, Sherlock." She said quietly.

"You've nothing to apologize for."

"I shouldn't have been so glib. After everything you've been through. I don't know what came over me."

"That's the intent. That's what they are." Sherlock frowned, thinking out loud in that lilting way of his. "Tools of war designed to give combatants distance. Physical and psychological. Fighting with swords or sabres or fists requires skill. Discipline. Respect. Guns are impersonal, facilitating an emotional disconnect from the act. Especially under duress or a heated moment."

Molly said nothing, letting him ramble, work it out.

"Cognitive dissonance is exceedingly common." Sherlock continued. "Particularly in individuals that haven't been trained or desensitized. They always say "the gun went off" or that "they thought the gun was unloaded." They don't remember the argument or details of the situation, how it escalated. They describe it as an accident. Many times they don't remember reaching for the gun."

When Sherlock concluded, Molly added what he had blatantly omitted. "People almost always take a step back or flinch just as they decide to pull the trigger. That's why people are so inaccurate."

"An involuntary reaction to subconsciously shy away from the horrors of the act."

"But you don't use language like that. You didn't flinch or step away." Molly felt Sherlock shift uncomfortably behind her, but she didn't let him go.

"No, I didn't." Sherlock's jaw clenched. "More evidence of my lack of sensitivity and humanity."

"No, Sherlock. You're not wired like the rest if us." Molly explained patiently, threading her fingers through his, demonstrating her trust. "There was no hesitation or doubt because you could never take a life on an impulse or a whim. I've seen you emotionally detach from most everything, but this you accept completely. You own it. You're too conscientious to absolve yourself of anything less than full responsibility, unconsciously or not."

I – What?" Sherlock swallowed hard before clearing his throat. "I'm not good at feelings."

"Yes, you are. You are exceptionally good at them. You have to be to do the extraordinary things that you do. Understanding peoples' emotions and desires to uncover their motivations or behaviour. To always be 10 steps ahead."

Or to deny them.

"I haven't felt anything in weeks really." Sherlock confessed. Just a dazed fog. "Until I saw you hold the gun."

"I never meant to make you uncomfortable."

"I needed it." Sherlock said slowly, a stream of consciousness as he put it all together. "It was terrible, really. Jarring. And wrong. It was wrong of me to let you. "

She might have said something, but he didn't hear her, trying to process what a firearm really signified. What had changed.

Molly had been right. His experiences had altered his notions on what they meant.

No longer just a tool, but a representation of everything he despised. The most cardinal sins of humanity.

The stupidity of wars fought by unwitting pawns to ensure the reign and false ideology of their overlords. The cold, dispassionate response to the routine gun violence. The futile remorse after preventable accidents. The tragedy of impulsive suicides. There was _nothing_ logical or noble there.

"Guns symbolize the worst of us." Sherlock said, at last speaking to the woman beside him. "They inspire everything that is irrational, wasteful, and soulless."

"Everything you're not." Molly pointed out meaningfully.

Sherlock startled, her words washed over him, lapping away at his fears and self-hatred. "Still, I should have had some respect. Should have protected you."

Now Molly frowned. "You've never been protective of me. I don't need that."

It was true. When Sherlock wasn't shamelessly unrestrained in hurling vicious insults her way, he was unreasonably demanding or unfairly downplaying her importance. There was nothing trivial about her role in his life. He was better for her guidance, her insistence on being appreciated. Even at his worst, his most demanding, she never faltered. Never asked for anything in return.

Why continue to test her, pre-emptively condemn her for the crime that most others had committed in not being strong – or demented – enough to stay?

Molly's breath hitched as Sherlock's thumb caressed her palm, stroking the unmarred skin, tracing the delicate bones in her wrist. Her hand looked ridiculously tiny in his enormous, calloused one. His words were barely a murmur. "Such conviction and strength for someone so fragile."

"Not so fragile." Molly kicked off her shoes, pulling her feet up to settle more comfortably in his embrace, no longer fearful that she'd offend him or that he'd push her away.

"No." Sherlock amended. "You've never given up on me, even when the world had. I thought I had taken it too far this time."

"You did go too far. Its not alright. But it will be. We can help you work through this. Just don't give up on us yet."

"Yes." Sherlock whispered, breathing in her scent, drifting into deeper thought. "There's a great deal of data to process."

* * *

Molly didn't know how long she sat curled up against Sherlock's side, silently providing company and comfort as he toured through his mind palace, working through the source of his distress. At least an hour or more. It amazed her that he could be so still; not manically running around, fiddling with something, or generally terrorizing people. Every breath he took seemed profound and measured.

She'd expected a quick visit to drop off the specimens. Possibly a cup of tea and a curt thank you. If someone had told her she'd still be at 221B three hours later, having a cuddle with Sherlock Holmes after an identity crisis, she would have called them barmy.

She also might have washed her hair.

Poor Sherlock. She loved him, of course. Always had. Would love him until the day she died. She loved everything that he was. Brilliant. Loyal. Intense. Playful. Gorgeous.

_Gorgeous. _

Appreciating how his perfectly cut suits flaunted every line and angle of his lean physique was a far cry from being welcome to embrace him so. Never had she experienced anything so intimate. And it was just a hug.

But quite an intimacy for Sherlock too.

It was inappropriate, but couldn't help but focus on how he felt. Heat radiated through his thin clothes. Her hand on his torso could appreciate how lean his body was. How _hard_. With her head resting on his shoulder, she was close enough to detect the most subtle scent; a clean, deep citrus. Entirely masculine. Entirely Sherlock.

Molly took care to be still, not to involuntarily tease or stroke him, lest she disturb him. Or find that he was ticklish. God, wouldn't that take the biscuit!

Sherlock's proximity was having the most decided affect on her constitution, but she was okay with it. His come on earlier had been a regrettable lapse in judgement. She wouldn't hold it against him and hoped it wouldn't make things weird between them after today. She was content to have his friendship. And his trust.

Hopefully, John wouldn't be too cross when Sherlock decided to make an appearance. She didn't want to think how irritated he'd been when she'd seen him three days earlier. They would get sorted in no time.

The detective gently jostled Molly, letting her know he was cognizant again.

"I can hear you thinking. And your smiling." His deep baritone reverberated through her body.

"I was thinking of John. And Mary." Molly said.

She could _hear_ him wince, though she couldn't see his expression. "I don't suppose–."

"Oh, yes. He's quite miffed."

Sherlock cringed. "Yes, I shall pay a visit this week."

"Today."

"Today." Sherlock conceded obligingly. "You're frowning now. Why?"

Molly couldn't think of anything plausible to say except the truth, asking him quietly, "Is it always so painful for you? To care? To allow us to care about you?"

Sherlock sighed in her hair, unoffended and musing. "Caring takes courage."

"You've never lacked for courage."

"No, Molly. Just idiocy."

Molly laughed, pleased by his noticeable improvement in temperament. Sherlock shifted, pressing his forehead against hers. "I've been ridiculous. Everything that I said earlier, I know its not true. Say you believe me."

So much had happened. Molly wanted to believe him, but knew that those sorts of dark feelings didn't just vanish after one conversation. She wanted to see him make some effort, go see John and Mary. Or eat something. "I want to. You're so good at hiding–."

Molly's uncertain words gave way under Sherlock's tender kiss. Elegant fingers threaded through her hair and others settled on her hip as Sherlock tentatively brushed Molly's lips, not shy, but waiting patiently for her to press back, accepting his sincerity. His vulnerability. Molly melted into him, her tiny sigh met with his low groan. Sherlock shuddered, clutching her closer.

Their kiss went for ages, gentle and languid before they parted, Sherlock taking a deep, shattered breath.

"A genius, but so very stupid." Molly giggled, playfully smacking his shoulder.

"A moron." Sherlock cheerfully agreed, claiming her mouth again. What began as gentle and even platonic as before, turned heated as the detective slanted his lips over hers, firm and intent. Molly gasped, surprised by his hunger, eagerly opening to him. His tongue slide over hers enthusiastic and fiery, but artless.

A reminder that Sherlock really didn't do this sort of thing.

Molly eased away from him, forcing a smile. He cupped her face, a question in his eyes.

Molly scrambled, not wanting it to sound like a rejection. "You have been under extraordinary stress. For months. You have some things to work out. I wouldn't want to make things worse." Or take advantage.

"Worse?" Sherlock echoed.

Molly exhaled, trying to keep it light. "It's been a lot of feelings. And touching. And...feelings. I know your not–, um – that you don't..."

"I assure you, I've never wanted anything more in my life."

Now Molly knew she had to get up. She tried, but Sherlock held her fast. "You'll just take it back in the next breath." She whispered. "You always do. I couldn't bear it. Not from you."

"I'm terrible at these things, Molly. Saying the right thing. Recognizing significant moments. Not letting them slip away." Sherlock's eyes closed, apologetic once more. He brought her wrist to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss there. "I can't let you go. Not again."

"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock." Her fingers skimmed his lovely face, soothing the sharpness away. He cupped her hand, nuzzling her, needing more contact. "But it changes things."

Sherlock's eyes popped open with sudden new insight. He dropped her wrist to work at the buttons of his shirt, jerking it out of his trousers, peeling it back to reveal his chest. Molly gasped when he brought her fingers to his scar. "Things have to change. I must. _ I want to change._ I can't do it alone."

Molly's heart quivered as she caressed Sherlock's chest and shoulders, scarcely believing what he was telling her. Words she'd long given up hoping to hear. His conflicted behaviour from before made sense now. So desperate for affection and intimacy, but so confused by it.

She teetered on the brink. So close to giving him her heart. Knowing he would take care this time. But afraid of hurting _him_.

"What do you need, Molly? Tell me."

"Could you let me? Let me love you?" Molly blurted. "That's all I need. Just let me–."

Sherlock crushed his mouth to hers, moaning ardently against her lips. Deft fingers buried themselves in her hair, keeping their lips locked as he shifted, hauling Molly into his lap to straddle his thighs.

Elated, Molly took charge, pressing Sherlock deeper into the sofa, dipping her head down to skilfully brush her lips against his. He caught on quickly, following her lead as she took her time, showing him exactly how she liked to be kissed. Eager hands explored and caressed while their excitement grew, their tongues twisting, dancing.

A gentle bite on Sherlock's bottom lip was rewarded with a gasp and a playful tug on her tresses that forced her chin up. Molly's lashes fluttered as he lavished her jaw and throat with kisses and gentle nips. The detective hummed in approval when Molly indulged in her most fervid fantasy – stroking the nap of his neck, twisting her fingers in his dark curls, massaging his scalp.

Sherlock's large, powerful hands made their way under her jumper, touching every inch of skin he could find, twisting under the fabric. Knowing what he wanted, Molly pulled back to meet his intense gaze, lifting her arms.

He eagerly peeled her jumper up and off, but paused, not wanting to push for too much too soon.

"Everything." Molly assured him breathlessly, quickly amending to, "Anything you want."

"I'm greedy, Molly." Sherlock's azure eyes smouldered in promise.

"God, I hope so."

The green light given, Sherlock sat forward, pressing his chest against hers, caressing her arms as he brought them to her sides. He buried his face in her neck as he found his way to the clasp of her brassier. The garment popped open and Molly sighed as he swept her hair over the opposite shoulder, kneading the muscles of her back, cataloguing each vertebra along the curve of her spine.

Molly delighted in his almost innocent, methodical perusal. She had wanted him so long. It took everything she had to control her lust, to stop herself from ripping his clothes off and having him right away. Mostly out of an selfish fear that he would get spooked and run off.

But this was_ so_ much better.

The detective had starred in many of Molly's fantasies over the years. She'd always imagined him to be lusty and fast. Or awkward and bumbling. She'd never envisioned him being so tender, so slow and sensual. He wasn't in any rush to the finish line, content to find and cherish every inch of her body.

Sherlock didn't hold anything back. His eyes glazed over, completely undone as Molly stroked the column of his throat and his jaw reverently, knowing that while he was experienced with sex, he was new to love.

She intended to show him _everything. _

Finally, Sherlock leaned back, working his way to her front, charting the shape of her hips and planes of her belly. Awe and yearning reflected back at her as he pulled the bra down her arms.

"Lovely." Sherlock husked, tracing the curves of her breasts, cupping them, testing their weight.

The fabric of his dressing gown twisted in her grip on his back when Sherlock brushed her nipple with the pad of his thumb. Then the other. Sherlock steadied Molly with his palm against the small of her back, watching her face contort in pleasure, listening to her tiny sighs as he rolled the peak of her breast into a hard nub.

Molly squeezed his fingers, showing him the pressure she liked, to gently tug and twist just so. "You won't hurt me, Sherlock."

_"Molly."_ Sherlock groaned, surprised by the amount of stimulation she preferred and grateful for her guidance.

"Oh, don't stop." Molly moaned, now rolling her hips, hungry for friction.

"No, Molly." Sherlock brought his mouth to her breast, his voice deep with want. "Not this time."

Her entire body trembled as the detective worshiped her, sweeping his tongue over her areola and teasing her nipple with sensual flicks before blowing cool air over the hardening peak.

Molly thought she would dissolve when his arresting blue-green eyes fixed on hers, watching her reaction as he pulled her nipple into his mouth. She cried out softly, bucking in his lap and stroking his face. Obscene sounds bounced off the walls of the flat as Sherlock zealously suckled her, pinching her other breast, and using his other hand to cup her shoulder, driving her down on his erection.

After Sherlock thoroughly venerated both of her breasts, she pushed him back into the sofa, adjusting her position to stroke his hardness through his trousers. He threw his head back, gasping loudly. When she went to undo the top button of his trousers, Sherlock's hand stilled her.

She didn't have time to vocalize any disappointment.

Sherlock smiled brilliantly, removing her hand only to loop it around his neck. Molly caught on immediately as he gathered her in his arms and lifted her.

"Make love on the sofa? Our first time?" Sherlock's tone was playful as he whispered in her ear, carrying her to his bed. "I'm not a complete heathen."

Molly was all too happy to agree.

* * *

Wow! Thanks everyone for the huge response. All the favs, follows, and reviews mean a lot to me.

So here it is, my first completed fan-fic. I'm hoping for a sequel or possibly a third chapter, but it would be at least a month before I have time to write.

Anyway, please feel to leave any comments or constructive criticism below. I appreciate it!


End file.
